The Bleeding of Tomorrow
by Billabong2011
Summary: Legends are born of heroes, lore is bred from evil. But what is left that lies between? A dark tale of one girl's journey of self-discovery and her obligation to the duty that unites all of Ferelden; the path to salvation is paved in blood.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

** Alistair**

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><p>"Alistair?"<p>

Never before had the name instilled in his gut such dread and longing all in the same moment. He flinched at the sound of it, that small murmur that came from just above his shoulder. He dared not look at her lest he completely fall apart, so he acknowledged her with a slight nod, eyes unmoving from the cool steel of his sword that now lie in his palms. He watched the fading light of the day shimmer along its edge, so sharp and fine it could scythe a falling leaf in midair with alarming precision, and struggled to busy himself with it somehow, for he'd long since finished his cleaning of the thing. He'd been sitting here in solemn contemplation, considering his life, his choices, his destiny, the Blight, the darkspawn, the taint – that darkened promise that coursed so fervently through his veins, slowly but surely shortening his life, his _freedom_ with each rising and setting of the sun, with every pulse of his heart the ticking of an all-too human clock – the Archdemon, this girl, with her sun kissed skin and lithe legs and lips of Andraste herself, he could swear it, and that splatter of freckles just beneath her eyes and across her nose, those that he counted every time he was close enough to do so, and his all-consuming love for her – this impassioned magma that raged through every sinew, every muscle, every ache of his body a beautiful agony that was so meticulously bringing him to ruin – all the while waiting only for her to open her eyes, just open her eyes, and let him know that she was alright. If she weren't safe, if she'd come to harm, all the rest didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not in the least.

"How are you feeling?" He managed weakly, still not daring to steal a glance her. He didn't have to, for she lowered herself next to him, slow and stiff, visibly still recovering from her injuries.

"I've felt worse," He didn't have to look at her to hear the impish grin in her voice. He was too tired to manage anything but a small smile, even if his insides felt ready to explode. She was alright. She was ok. His Skaia…she was safe. "What about you?" Her voice was small, but it rang loud in his ears.

"Can't complain," Finally he faced her, those beautiful eyes meeting his with an honesty he'd never known. He smiled, reflexive. She did the same.

"I don't think I ever thanked you," She blinked, sheepish. "So…thank you. For everything."

"Oh, don't mention it," He smirked, finding once more that defensive shield he knew as sarcasm somewhere deep within. "I'm a Grey Warden, it's what we do." She laughed, a bell-like, breathy sound that warmed his heart and flushed her cheeks. She dipped her toe in the water then, playing her skin against its rippling reflection, ever changing, ever dancing. He could only sit and watch, mesmerized.

"Look…" She looked toward the setting sun, ghosts of magenta tiptoeing along her lashes. The tremble in her voice made his stomach churn – he wasn't ready, not for this. "There's a saying among my cla- the Dalish." She stopped herself, choking up as she did so. He looked to her, heart breaking for her, but she swallowed back her tears, pressing on. "Ma vhenan'ara." The words flowed freely from her as a lullaby does a bard, and he wanted to swim inside the sound. "Literally, it means 'my heart's desire,'" She chewed her lip, lost in thought, miles away from him now, but he was all too aware of every little twitch and tremor of his own body, the way his breath was coming in short rasps now, awaiting the rest of her explanation. He didn't know where she was going with this, and he was scared and excited and itchy and nauseous waiting to find out.

"Loosely translated…" Her lips curled into a small smile, and he held his breath as she looked at him. "It means 'my immortal, my destruction.'" Her eyes glazed over, but she blinked back whatever swam to the surface. "We use it only to address our soul mate." She grinned, a beautiful sight. Touching her arm to his wrist, she dropped something into his palm, but he couldn't rip his eyes from her to look at it. "And you are mine, vhenan'ara." He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, her face was so close to his, couldn't move, she smelled sweet and bitter and all things he'd ever craved as a child, and when she took her hand from his he felt the warmth leave his body as though it yearned only for her, could _be_ only for her.

"And it breaks me to say this," She bit her lip, eyes glassy with tears – why the sudden switch? The feeling of dread returned to him in full form, paralyzing him and fouling the taste in his mouth. "But it is because of this that we cannot be." And with that she rose, pulling away from him in mind, body, and soul. He could hear his heart shatter into a thousand pieces and crash to the dock below, and in one swift movement, watching in agony as she tripped away from him, so _very_ far away, he threw his sword to the ground, scrambling to his feet in his haste to catch her before she disappeared forever.


	2. Chapter 1: Glass Memories

**Chapter 1: Glass Memories**

**Skaia**

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><p>She didn't know who she was, and she was alone.<p>

She was lying unclothed in a vast expanse of meadow, encircled by a ring of grand weeping willows; only there was something monotonous and unarguably sad about them. She'd always loved willow trees, that much she could remember; the gnarled tree trunks that reminded her of the imperfections of home, wherever that may be, the way their many rings and scars told of the years of history they'd watched pass by with the patience only granted with eternity, the way their branches sank lovingly to the ground as if to return to their roots hidden deep beneath the earth, how they danced with the breeze as though whispering to her their deepest and darkest of secrets. They'd always been, to her, so alive. But these trees were dark and cold, and there was nothing remotely living or once living about them, and it made her skin crawl.

She felt the itch of grass beneath and all around her over her every pore, light as the touch of a mother along a newborn babe, and so she sat up, suddenly uneasy with the sensation that every thing around her was hollow, devoid of sincerity, lulling her into a false sense of serenity for she knew not what purpose. She brushed a tendril from her face, and it felt as though her arm swam through water, and only then did she realize how heavy the atmosphere was, the weight bearing down on her from everywhere. She heaved for breath, feeling her chest rise and fall as if in slow motion, and she was suddenly hyperaware of her body, so seemingly alien in this all-too quiet clearing. _How did she get here?_

It took her much energy to raise herself to her feet, standing up to examine the sky above, clear, blue, and so vast it threatened to swallow her whole. But something was off; it was too bright, too clear, too pristine to be natural, and a chill wracked her body. Wrapping her arms around herself, she averted her gaze back toward the meadow, only now something else was different; there was a mirror, a grand, intricate thing now twenty paces in front of her, detailed and ornate in its design, that which she did not – could not – recall being there before.

She was drawn to it, the antiquated structure now towering so close by, the reflection capturing every little detail of the green and grassy lea, the way her skin hugged her every sinew as she walked, the glassy sheen of her eyes and the subtle stirring of a single tendril of hair over her collarbone. She seemed to be in tune with every single thing around her, aware of every cell in her body that breathed and exhaled with her every step, that pulsed beat against her ears, the way her breath crept from her lips as though wary of the air outside. She wasn't so much enthralled with her beauty as she was with the magnificence of life, and there was something inarguably seductive about the human form.

_Human? No, she wasn't human… nor was she elven. What was she? She could no longer remember, or had she never known?_

Now inches from the glass, she studied every detail, every minute shape and line visible to the naked eye, and felt something stir inside her. She was compelled to touch a finger to the glass, and watched as she reached forward, slow and deliberate.

The glass shattered beneath her fingertips.

What was left framed in the arch of the mirror was something inhuman, something bizarre and unnatural and wrong, a distorted image of something living, something she could feel was herself but resembled not a single thing she'd seen before, a warped creature that stared back into her eyes with gaping chasms of its own, devoid of depth and yet infinite, a skeletal figure that mirrored her movements, all the while wearing a wry smile upon strained lips over pointed teeth. It was enough to chill her to the bone, but she was paralyzed, left staring at this thing before her she didn't, _couldn't_ understand, and yet understood better than she did herself.

Its skin was lithe and thin, cradling a bony frame that shuddered with every move it made, goose bumps painting its pores in an ugly way, and before she knew it, the sky had darkened, there was no sky anymore, nor any trees or meadow or flowers or grass or anything, just darkness, and she was left standing before this thing that had seemed to crawl from deep within herself, which was the most terrifying thought of all.

It beckoned her forward with a bony finger, nail dirty and long, scratching an invisible surface that emitted a shrill ululation that made her stomach lurch, but still she leaned toward this ghost of herself that was withering away before her eyes. She could feel its breath in her ear as she was wrenched from this world of dark promises and unnatural puzzles, only a single whisper following her through the dark, a haggard, ugly voice that scared her senseless.

_ Latha Luain cinh sibh._

**_ Doomsday becomes you._**

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><p>She awoke with a start, jolting awake and falling onto her bed as though having been dropped from a cliff. She hated the feeling, not so much the impact as the moments of free fall just before it in which her stomach seemed to tumble in midair, doing backflips somewhere inside her throat, as her heart threatened to leap from her chest through a chasm in her lower back. She'd suffered the episodes of interrupted sleep since she was a child, and still every experience felt new to her, just as foreign as the very first time. Terrifying.<p>

Rubbing her neck, massaging the tension from her muscles that had so tightened in reaction to her disturbing dream, she found her bearings, blinking the sleep from her eyes and making sense of her surroundings. Soon the familiar smell of pine and wooded potions and honed ironbark and incense flooded her senses, and the skin overhead painted with pictures and images of elven history began to make sense once more. The sounds of another day beginning tore through the tent, the quiet murmur of voices and water humming through a brook, the padding of halla hooves against soft soil, bows being stretched taut against resistant frames, early morning fires crackling in warm tones as though to greet the day before them. Soon the uneasy feeling swimming in her stomach had subsided, and she was comforted by the familiarity of home.

"Skaia?" The voice startled her to the point of making her jump, dropping the breastplate she'd been unlacing to don for today's affairs. She quickly tucked the heavy weight that still left an ache in her chest inside her shirt, fumbling with the chain as she did so. She could only pray Ashalle hadn't heard her clumsiness.

"Yes?" She called out innocently, suddenly very afraid of the woman who had for so long raised her as her own. The woman she'd come to know as her mother.

"I'm sorry, da'len, I didn't mean to startle you," Her soothing, even tone permeated the caravan's flap, setting Skaia's nerves at ease. Ashalle had a way with comfort. "But you must make haste – you have a big day ahead of you." There was a pause that hung in the air that neither mother nor daughter missed. "The creators could not have offered me a greater blessing, my child." Skaia listened to the light footsteps of her only kin fade away, so graceful and ghostly over the ground of the camp, a skill she herself lacked. Taking a deep breath, Skaia fingered the charm beneath her tunic – she could swear it burned to the touch, half convinced she would find burn marks on her fingers when she went to wash her hands later that evening.

She did as Ashalle asked, tarrying in the caravan no longer than necessary, shouldering her quiver, pocketing her daggers and lacing her boots on her way out.

_...Ready or not, here I come._

And off she went to face the day.


	3. Chapter 2: Tempest

**Chapter 2: Tempest**

**Skaia**

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><p><strong><em>Hahren na melana sahlin<em>**

_Elder your time is come_

She's humming to herself so that only the trees can hear

**_Emma ir abelas_**

_Now I am filled with sorrow_

She walks among whispering shadows

**_Souver'inan isala hamin_**

_Weary eyes need resting_

The dead just won't stay quiet here

**_Vhenan him dor'felas_**

_Heart has become grey and slow_

They won't stay quiet anywhere

**_In uthenera na revas_**

_In waking sleep is freedom_

She fears the darkness of the sky

**_Vir sulahn'nehn_**

_We sing, rejoice_

Tiptoeing barefoot through soft soil

**_Vir dirthera_**

_We tell the tales_

She sings, she dances

**_Vir samahl la numin_**

_We laugh and cry_

Silence as her only friend

**_Vir lath sa'vunin_**

_We love one more day_

Death becomes her, body and soul

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><p>Hahren Paivel gave her goosebumps every time he sang, but the only chant she remembered - and considered worth remembering - was the Elvish Eulogy. For something meant to be so sad and full of sorrow, it filled her heart with warmth and light and made her want to dance beneath the falling leaves of autumn. Ashalle always said she shouldn't ever stray from camp alone - at the modest age of seven, Skaia wasn't yet ready for so dangerous a task. But in spite of all her mother's warnings, she found herself compelled on that eve, so full of dusk and cinnamon, to rove too far from home.<p>

She hadn't meant to wander so far. She had been chasing the wisps of a dandelion, carried along a breeze so full of the coming winter's chill, through camp, oblivious to where it was she was going. Only when she could no longer see the faded light of dying campfires nor smell the familiar scent of pinewood shavings did she realize she was lost.

It hadn't been long before what little remained of the dandelion evaporated into thin air, leaving her stranded and utterly alone in these woods she did not yet know. She knew she should be scared, knew she should start calling out for help and retracing her steps back from whence she came, but instead curiosity roared up inside her like a great wave, urging her farther forward into oblivion.

Only when darkness licked at her every pore did she start to sing his eulogy, _the_ eulogy, and let herself go beneath the quiet stars. She kicked bare toes through crumbling leaves, spinning and twirling in girlish delight, laughing at whatever she bumped into in the dead of night at the lack of sight she had. For the first time in her life, young Skaia understood the meaning of freedom - did not just know what it meant, did not just remember how to define it in words, but could feel it from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers, could see it rearing up inside her like an untamed stallion, driving her ever forward into the unknown. She barely noticed the way the subtle sounds of nature began to die away, every croak of the frog and every flap of a wing subsided, reveling in the silence - so unnatural and eerie - for in the silence she could hear her voice as though it came from everywhere, all around her, the sky itself. She felt invincible, and lulled herself into serenity with the sound of her own song echoing through the trees. She wasn't sure how many times she sang the eulogy to herself, but her song was cut short when something ravaged her from behind, knocking her breathlessly to the ground and abruptly out of consciousness.

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><p>Ashalle, Keeper Marethari, Hahren Paivel and all the rest of the elders refrained from scolding her until she'd fully recovered from her injuries, almost a full week later than when the incident took place. She'd suffered considerable damage to her back and ribcage, some head trauma and lacerations on her palms and knees where she'd been felled, but nothing had so very nearly extinguished her life as the poison that had spoiled her blood. Only with the help of Keeper Marethari's ancient magic was she, in her immature, childly body, able to fight off whatever taint it was that had so plagued her weak form.<p>

The entirety of the camp feared her, feared catching whatever it was that had intoxicated her every fiber - for nobody knew just what it was that had attacked her in the woods, nor why it had left her alive - and avoided her for days when she finally awoke, returning to her normal routines within the hour. This was her first taste of alienation, and it was bitter to the tongue. Foul.

Only when she walked about the camp singing that all-too familiar eulogy did Keeper Marethari pull her aside, into her caravan and out of the cold, to reprimand her for her foolishness. It was the only time they spoke of the prior week's events.

"Da'len, you've a natural gift for the song," Marethari smiled as she wiped dirt from the child's face, running a hand through tangled hair. "But you must learn to control the tempest within if you seek to master your true potential. Do not be your own demise; the path to salvation is paved in enough blood already."


	4. Chapter 3: South of Heaven

**Chapter 3: South of Heaven**

**Alistair**

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><p>He loved the feeling of waking up in the morning to a brisk chill that sent his senses afire. There was nothing else in the world like it.<p>

The sweet smell of morning stew tempted him toward the center of camp, but he ignored the aroma and trudged toward the ruins of the old observation tower for his morning routine. It took him longer than usual to work all the kinks out of his neck and shoulders - that bloody Mabari hound had weighed more than he expected. Carrying the tainted dog out of the Wilds wasn't one of his better ideas, but he wasn't going to just let the thing lie there, suffering and rotting in darkspawn filth. He may have trained as a Templar, but he wasn't without mercy.

There was something oddly comforting about his morning ritual - the stretches that strained his muscles, the exercises that challenged his footwork, the limbering up of his sword arm and the strengthening of his shield arm. The focus required for such active meditations allowed him to find his center - an otherwise elusive thing for Alistair - and brought him a sense of peace, even among the Blighted (literally) chaos that now enveloped the camp. At least the Chantry had been good for something.

It was during his X trials - a pretentious term for cross-body swordplay - that he was so rudely interrupted by Daveth, snickering like a little child having just pulled the nearest girl's braid.

"What is it, Daveth?" Alistair wiped his brow, letting his sword fall to his side, arm limp and sore. That was what he hated about the end of a workout - he never noticed the pain until all of the exercise just suddenly stopped.

"They've just brought word that Duncan and the new recruit will be arriving shortly!" Daveth hopped from foot to foot, giddy with anticipation. Alistair fought the urge to groan - how anticlimactic.

"Yes, Daveth, we've been aware of their arrival for some time now-"

"But you didn't hear the greatest bit of news!" Daveth had never been one for taking hints, no matter how clever a pickpocket he was, not when his own self interests were at stake.

"Yes? And what's that?" Alistair was bored, and he bet he looked it too.

"The new recruit!" Daveth was grinning so wide Alistair thought his jaw might tear clean through his skin. "She's a _woman_!" An awkward pause passed between them before Alistair finally graced the young recruit with a response.

"And?"

Daveth blinked, taken aback.

"_And_ what?" He seemed almost..._offended?_ "I can count the number of women I've seen here at camp on one hand! And aside from that blonde, hardly any of them are worth noticing." He snickered. "Plus, I hear the new recruit's a _rogue_ - imagine all the ways her body could-"

"Y-you've clearly thought about that _enough _for one day, recruit," Flustered, Alistair scoffed, turning and unsheathing his sword to resume his practice. If there was one thing he hated more than awkward conversations, it was awkward conversations about _women_. "I _suggest_ you focus your attention on the Joining, lest you-"

"I've another message for you before I take my leave." Alistair groaned. Somewhere, he could hear the Maker laughing.

"Yes? What is it?"

"The Revered Mother wishes to see you," Daveth paused, thinking. "It sounded urgent." And with that he turned on his heel, heading back to camp in the direction of that food that had so tickled Alistair's fancy a mere hour before.

"_The Revered Mother wishes to see you_," Alistair mocked, kicking a pebble with his toe. "Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription and the bloody Chantry _still_ toys with my emotions." Sulking, he made his way back toward the Chantry's side of camp, trying in vain to wipe the sweat from his brow and shake the hair from his face so that he may be at least _somewhat_ presentable - the Revered Mother already had enough against him for one lifetime, he needn't give her any more.

He paused outside her tent, unsure of whether or not he should weather this storm alone, though he was sure she had sent for him and_ only_ him. He drew a breath, shouldering his sword, shield, and the armor that plated his body with such weight it made his muscles scream in the best possible way - there was nothing in the world that said **safety** like the strain of his shoulder blades and calves and forearms under chainmail or iron or dragonbone.

But something lingered. Something itched at the back of his mind that would not let him breathe easy, would not let him fall asleep at night without crawling into his thoughts and dreams - nightmares, really - and though it had plagued him since Arl Eamon had sent him away, cast him aside as though the years spent rearing him as any legitimate father would, even though he'd grown to know this feeling as an old friend, it felt new to him every time, just as fresh and raw as the first. No matter how strong he and the armor he bore were, no matter what he used as a shield, no matter the defense he forged, whether it be tactical withdrawal or deflective wit, there would never in this world be anything to protect him from the Chantry.

Vulnerability tasted surprisingly sour to him as he stole one last look at the horizon before entering the Mother's tent, out of the encroaching brightness of the day and into the past he'd tried so hard to forget.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I really don't much care for this one - it feels like filler to me - but I'll let you decide. I was trying to illustrate Alistair's background and how it has effected him as a character, but... meh. Oh well. Thanks for reading! :)


	5. Chapter 4: Racing Skies

**Author's Note: **(For those unfamiliar with the language of the dales) "_Andaran atish'an_" and "_aneth ara_" are both greetings in the elven tongue. "_Da'len_" is a term of endearment - literally meaning '_little child_' - used by elders to those younger in the clan. "_Adahlen_" means "forest." "_Ma serannas_" means "thank you." "_Atisha_" means "peace." "_Din_" means "not, is not" and "_dirth_" means "to talk, to speak," and so, when paired together, they mean something along the lines of "_don't speak_" (akin to shut up :P). "Elgar'nan" and "Mythal" are the head god/goddess of the Elven Pantheon (the belief of the Dalish that follows the 'creators' - a polytheistic religion). "Elgar'nan" is the god of vengeance and fatherhood, while "Mythal" is the goddess of justice and protection. "Vallaslin" means "blood writing" and refers to the tattoos Dalish elves receive upon passing into adulthood (I've expanded upon the idea in this story to include a ritual unexplained in the franchise). Enjoy! :)

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Racing Skies<strong>

**Skaia**

* * *

><p>"Andaran atish'an, da'len," It was instead Keeper Marethari who greeted her at the foot of the caravan, silvery hair drinking in the brilliant light of the day, eyes kind and skin as smooth as though it were Mythal herself upon which Skaia now looked.<p>

"Aneth ara, Keeper," Skaia's smile was weak. Though the Keeper had always treated her with kindness, had always shown her the ways of the people and inspired her to know her history, she'd half-expected Ashalle to greet her instead, contagious smile and all. But of course she wasn't here, not today, not for Skaia. Why would anyone stay with her?

"Somewhere, da'len, Ashalle smiles," Keeper Marethari brushed away a tendril of hair from Skaia's face, peering at her, studying her. It made Skaia itch all over, the scrutiny of the Keeper's stare.

"Yes, Keeper. Somewhere," She bit her lip, blinking back whatever it was that swam to the surface. Marethari's eyes softened, sympathetic.

"If you would allow me, da'len, I would be honored to braid your hair for the evening's affair," Marethari paused; it was the first time Skaia knew her to be unsure of herself. "I could assist you now. For as long as you have let it grow, my child, it could take quite some time." The small chuckle that escaped from her warmed Skaia's heart, if only for a moment.

"Ma serannas, Keeper, but I-" Skaia fumbled for words, unsure of what excuse to give the leader of the clan, the one who seemed to know what one was doing even in her absence, regardless of the circumstance. It was futile, she knew, but something inside her told her to stay quiet. She would never tell.

"I'm sure you've planned to do some hunting this morning, yes?" Keeper Marethari laughed, a windy sound, so natural and bright. "I can see you've dressed more readily for that occasion than for the Rite of the Vallaslin?" She gestured to Skaia's attire - gauntlets, boots, and the worn, beat up breast plate clad around her middle. Skaia smiled, sheepish. "You've always been a child of the adahlen."

"I-I was hoping to-"

"Go, da'len," Her eyes were soft, understanding. "Just ensure you return with enough time for us to braid that impossibly long hair of yours."

* * *

><p>Skaia knew no greater happiness than running through the forest, amongst the brush and undergrowth and extraordinarily green trees that whipped by all around her to the rhythm of her own breath. The murmur of her soft-soled boots as they skated over soil was like music to her, the sounds of animals nearby, streams tripping beside her and the breeze telling her its secrets the greatest symphony of them all. It was only when she ran in the forest that she understood what it was "freedom" meant. Peace. Atisha.<p>

She heard Tamlen's pulse before she could smell the familiar balsam and cedar of his hair, and smelled him before she could see the sun caught in his blond hair, the sparkle of those blue eyes. Something in her gut wrenched forward - no, there was more than one thing. There was a sense of dread, of terror, of violation, but there was also that childish impulse to blush, to smile sheepishly and blink rapidly, eyelashes on skin that was crawling with a prickly sensation from head to toe. Together they hit her with forces unparalleled, and suddenly she felt nauseous, a sickness that settled somewhere deep inside - Disturbia; she doubted would make it through the next few moments without retching.

"So you finally managed to get away from camp?" Tamlen's laugh was bell-like against the wind, a chime and a half away from making song with the birds overhead.

"Don't I always?" She grinned, but it didn't reach her eyes. It would _never_ reach her eyes again.

"That you do," Tamlen's eyes danced, wild and untamed. It made her legs ache with disquiet - she wanted to run. "So! What's on the agenda for today, lethallan? Hunting a wild black bear? Slaying a poisonous spider the size of a halla? Taming a wild Sylvan and riding it back to camp?" He was smirking, now, a sickeningly sweet sight.

"Nothing too extravagant, I'm afraid," She shied away from his touch as he sidled up beside her, hoping against hope he hadn't noticed her discomfort. "Keeper Marethari says I'm to be back at a reasonable hour so she can braid my hair."

"Braid _your_ hair?" Tamlen roared. "Elgar'nan, that'll take days, at least!" For a second, she no longer saw the man, towering and lithe, confident, cool, she'd watched Tamlen become, but the boy whose infinitely blue eyes lit up at the sight of every sunrise just on the horizon, whose curiosity knew no bounds and who pushed her into a stream the first time she'd beaten him in a race. For a second, she was no longer afraid, and for a second, she remembered why she loved him.

"Din dirth!" She playfully elbowed him in the ribs, forgetting at once the rippling of unsettled skin his touch elicited from her until he made to grab her arm - the brush of his skin against her own brought back that feeling in her every pore of quiet sacrilege, memories crashing down around her in a deafening display as she shrieked, prying away from his grasp. He laughed - he thought this was a game. A part of their friendship. Their _courtship_. He didn't understand... he would never understand. Everything she'd fallen in love with as a girl, his earthen skin and sky-blue eyes and the smile of one so enthralled by everything in the world around him - it was all gone. Completely gone. And it would never come back.

Suddenly, the Rite of the Vallaslin no longer seemed such an honor to Skaia, this passage into adulthood, and this man she didn't understand, so alien from the boy she'd come to know, no longer seemed so ethereal and just, and soon she could see so clearly the Keeper's pity furrowed within her brow, could feel Ashalle's absence crawl beneath her spine, how it not only saddened her and made her weak-hearted, but stole from her her entire future, as a clansman, as an elven, a _woman_, and then she was staring back at empty eyes, into the void of the faceless parents she'd never known, and as reality set in so dark and foreboding all around her, obscuring the facade of beauty and serenity and _atisha_ that had not a moment ago played with her amongst the trees, she found she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and so she did the only thing she'd ever been taught to do - not by her clan, but by instinct.

She ran.


	6. Chapter 5: Butterflies

**Chapter 5: Butterflies**

**Morrigan**

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><p>There was nothing in this world quite like it.<p>

The feeling of butterflies in her stomach - not that she called it that, for she'd never heard it referred to that way before, but it was that hippity, hoppity jumping feeling she got in her stomach whenever she did something she wasn't supposed to. Which, with Flemeth for a mother - yet another word she wouldn't know until much later in her life - left quite a number of things open, many of which most parents wouldn't allow _their_ children to do with such irreverence.

But Morrigan's mother wasn't like most mothers.

That's why it didn't surprise Morrigan when she was punished for playing with a gold mirror she'd stolen from a woman she'd seen admiring herself in its reflection. It was why she'd had that funny feeling in her stomach the entire time she was sneaking up behind the woman to take the beautiful creation in her hands for herself. Her mother had always condoned her toying with humans should it involve her - the moment Flemeth was separated from these games, however, was the moment she deterred Morrigan from playing.

But the mirror was so beautiful, gold, sleek, and perfectly sculpted to fit in the woman's hands. Morrigan couldn't wait until she was that woman's age, with hands just as delicate, fingers just as long, so it would fit in her own grasp just as easily.

But what she really loved was seeing her reflection.

Aside from the occasional scare when bathing in the river at the face that stared back at her from below, or the muddled picture of a person in a pail of water, she'd never really seen herself before, not up close anyway. It wasn't like they had a mirror of their own in the hut - vanity wasn't something her mother particularly cherished.

But it was unearthly, finally seeing herself for the first time with such clear definition. She gazed at the smooth, creamy skin that she watched herself touch with trembling figures in its iridescent reflection, the lips her mother always scolded her for biting, the hair she'd never seen frame the shape of her face quite the way it was right now, the yellow eyes that burned with a fiery curiosity and cunning intelligence that far outwitted those of any human she'd encountered. Oh, those eyes. She'd yet to see such a hypnotizing sight in her life, the way they danced behind heavy lids with the magic she felt coursing through her veins. It was power, raw and immeasurable, that swam inside her as she gazed back at herself in the mirror whose engraved, golden edges so closely matched the color of her gaze.

And then her mother found it and took it away from her forever.

She hadn't said a word to Morrigan when she'd done it. She'd silently ripped the thing from her grasp and thrown it to the ground with such force as to smash the thing into thousands of tiny pieces, shattering its glass and the pieces of a child's heart all in a single stroke of sober discipline.

She'd scolded Morrigan for what seemed like hours after this charade, prattling on about the consequences of stealing, vanity, and materialism, but Morrigan never really heard her, for all she could do was stare at the broken pieces strewn all across the floor, watching rainbows dance off their many edges as butterflies danced inside her stomach around her heart.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated this! I hope you enjoyed this chapter - just a bit of characterization for Morrigan, with some important detailing that will come in handy for much later on in the story :) A bit of expansion on the story she tells the main character in the game (if they're close enough) - it was about time we heard from someone other than Skaia and Alistair!


	7. Chapter 6: Precipice Unbound

**Chapter 6: Precipice Unbound**

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><p><em>How did I get here?<em> Was the only thought she could muster in her weakened state, pain enveloping her sides and temples like the heads of spears embedded in a dying fawn. She blinked up at the blurring, swirling pictures above, trying to make sense of the hole in her memory. She found she couldn't move, not really, and felt terror seize her gut, only to realize with relief that she was once more beneath the canvas of Marethari's aravel.

_But I woke up here not a few hours ago...didn't I?_

And once again terror seized her in its whirlwind embrace, sending her eyes wildly about the room as she sought to understand just how and why she was again in Marethari's caravan.

Had she already undergone the Rite? Was that the reason she'd blacked out?

_Elgar'non! Weak! You couldn't handle the pain of it!_ She silently berated herself, feeling slowly seeping back into her extremities as she finally understood what had felled her body so.

But I shouldn't lose feeling in my whole body...should I?

_That's just how weak you are, **da'len**._ It was taunting her now, so snide and clear she could have sworn someone was in the wagon with her. Her legs squirmed and twitched beneath her, numbness oozing from her muscles with a tiresome reluctance.

_Ashalle will be **so** disappointed._ It was almost inaudible, but it made her heart stop somewhere in her throat nonetheless.

_No! She has always been proud!_

Oh, no...was this that 'hearing voices' thing the shemlens always raved about?

_Foolish child. Why else do you think she left you?_

She was frozen. Sick.

Somewhere, something screamed.

_It was not her choice-_

_**Len'alas lath'din!** She could have fought! But no. She lacked purpose. You were not worth it. You have never been worth it._

_No one has ever loved you and no one ever will._

**Ar tu na'din!**

She roared, this time aloud, bolting upright and knocking over several of the Keeper's vials and potions as she did so, dark gaze fixed on an unseen enemy. She fought for air, clutching her aching side as she got her bearings. She'd unknowingly - reflexively - unsheathed her blade with her other hand, which shook in so uncontrollable a way as the world crashed down around her.

The voices were gone. She was alone.

She could make out the detailing of the aravel now, the stories the artistry told, the smells and sounds that flooded her senses, the hum of voices and murmur of halla just outside the caravan. Trembling, she sheathed her dagger, shaken and embarrassed, praying only that no one had heard her tear at the seams.

But she was only _half_ elven... their hearing was at least twice as good as hers.

_I need some air._

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><p>"I'm sorry?" She stood gaping at Fenarel, whose tale of her and Tamlen's being felled by Elgar'non knew what in some abandoned ruin hidden in the surrounding forest was so ridiculous as to actually render her speechless. The young elf had always had a taste for mischief, but spinning elaborate stories had never been one of his many tendencies. No, the baby-faced warrior was more keen on looking for a fight where one didn't belong than spurring others toward foolishness with words.<p>

"It was two days ago when the Grey Warden brought you back to camp, he said he found you wandering in the woods-"

"Grey Warden?" She blinked, mind turning in on itself with the flurry of memories she didn't have. _How could two days of my life just escape me?_ What had happened to her and Tamlen on the day of the Rite, and why couldn't she remember it?

"Yes, but he left when the Keeper told him you would be fine, something about seeking out some ruins-"

"Where is Tamlen?"

The question jarred Fenarel from the mindless retelling of his story, and his mouth snapped shut in so hurried a fashion as to answer her question without his needing to speak the words to tell her.

"Are there scouts out looking for him?" She barely managed to find her voice, overcome with dread and fear and despair and grief and guilt that knotted her middle into unyielding sickness. Apparently, it showed. Fenarel was quick to reassure her.

"Yes, of course, lethallan!" He put his hand to her shoulder, an uncomfortable gesture that made her flinch. She wasn't used to any of her fellow Dales physically touching her, no matter how close they were. They'd learned to fear her more and more as she grew older, not just because of the poisoning she'd survived in her youth, but because of her heritage - a "shemchild," they called it. Not a single person seemed to understand her, who she was or how she fit into the clan or how to act around her, and so, with time, she had learned to accept the distance others kept between themselves and her. Nobody trusted her, and so nobody touched her.

Well. Nobody but Tamlen.

"Anyway," He withdrew his arm, realizing with a moment of horror the implications of his touch. "K..Keeper Marethari wished me to summon her when you awoke. Please, wait here." He turned to leave, and she nearly let him go, until she herself had a moment of realization.

"Fenarel!"

He spun on his heel, blond locks swept away from his cheek by the breeze that grew from his sharp pivot, revealing to her even more of what she'd failed to notice in all her confusion.

"Congratulations on your Vallaslin, lethallin." She managed a smile, and he grinned at her, modest but appreciative. "Adulthood suits you well."

His eyes widened, surprised, but not displeased. He cleared his throat, fighting an oncoming stutter.

"Ma serannas, lethallan."

And away he galloped into the afternoon light, not to return until he towed along with him the woman with the answers Skaia desperately sought.


	8. Chapter 7: Skaia

**A/N:** Hey, sorry everyone that it's taken so long! My summer's been so ridiculously busy, and I've finally just gotten home for a few weeks of calm relaxation until I get to go back to school again...WHOOPEE!? :/ Anyway, this is a re-release of an older chapter - I edited a few things in it - mostly grammatical - and got rid of another chapter I didn't care for that came before it. For anyone new to this fanfiction, enjoy! And thanks, all, for reading!

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><p><strong>Chapter 7: Skaia<strong>

**Alistair**

She wasn't what he expected.

To say he was flustered by her was an understatement. His argument with the circle mage had been rendered moot when he'd laid eyes on her as she stood waiting patiently for her chance to have Alistair's time and attention, eyes dancing wildly at the upset ministrations of the furious mage. But this wasn't the first time he'd seen her - it was only the first time they'd met.

The day before, he'd been called on by the kennel master to assist in an 'urgent matter that required immediate attention.' This meant, when roughly translated, that the Mabari Alistair had rescued not days before had become too much of a burden for the man to handle on his own. _Now you know how I felt when I carried him half a day's trip back to camp_, he'd thought to himself wryly. Mabari war hounds were remarkably intelligent, incredibly faithful, and fierce warriors, but not a one in history had ever been prided on his slim figure, a fact he and his back had had to learn the hard way the days following the torturous journey back to camp.

But as bitter as he'd been at the dog's strain on his body (_mind, __**and**__ soul,_ he thought to himself, shame washing over him with the realization he couldn't carry a dog without doubling over for breath) he'd tried to aid the hulking creature as best he could. As odd as it sounded, he saw a lot of himself in the hound, a big, bulky thing who'd been bred to fight, trained to be loyal, only to be left to rot in its own filth, waiting for a savior to give him a second chance…

He knew men were dogs, but this was ridiculous.

But much to his dismay, Alistair had been at a loss for a solution, saddened he couldn't get near the now aggressive Mabari to muzzle him so that the kennel master might heal him and ease his suffering. He'd asked the kennel master if he had any meat lying around, that an empty stomach would surely make _him_ grumpy and unbecoming, but the dog had pawed it aside, whimpering at the smell. _'See what I mean?'_ the kennel master had asked. _'It would be a shame for such a promising member of the breed to have to be put down.'_

In all honesty, he was more clueless to the inner workings of the dog's mind than he was a woman's.

Well, maybe not _that_ clueless.

"That won't be necessary," Alistair had responded defensively. What was it inside him that wanted, _needed_ this dog to find salvation? He'd been raised in a chantry, sure, but he'd never really considered...

"Won't it?" The kennel master - Gareth, was it? - contended. "The taint's got him looking worse each day, and I can't even get any Wilds Flowers since no one's heading into the Wilds..."

"The new recruits and I will be heading into the Wilds tomorrow," Alistair crossed his arms, challenging Gareth to continue on in his hopeless display.

"But if I can't even get near him to apply the salve-"

But Alistair was no longer listening. He was too confused to offer Gareth his ear as he tried to decipher the scene before him.

There was a tree that hung low over the kennel, enormous in size, so much so Alistair could only assume it was hundreds of years old. Some of its gnarled branches extended over the pen of their injured, upset friend about whom they now spoke. But now the tree's arms trembled under the weight of a creature who made climbing look so easy he almost thought himself imagining her, though the fact that the Mabari was also looking up at the disturbance told him otherwise.

Gracefully, she dropped from her perch in a half somersault, pads of her feet making almost no sound as they reached the dirt. By now, Gareth had turned round, looking on at whatever Alistair was so quizzically looking at; he could practically feel his neck strain at the near 90 degree angle his head was making.

The girl was young, no more than 18 or 19, if Alistair had to guess, with impossibly long hair that fell in caramel cascades down her back. She was relatively small in stature, but blessed with the lithe curves and smooth sinews of an acrobat - she was a rogue. She must have been. Or something akin to it, at least, for he had no idea whether or not she actually practiced fighting. She approached the Mabari, not reaching for him as he and Gareth had done, but kneeling before him so that she stared into the hound's deep, intelligent face at eye level. He half expected the dog to tear her face off, leaving her ruined corpse somewhere within the kennel, but to his surprise the dog immediately shrank under her gaze, easing back on his haunches, a violent beast turned gentle giant in but a moment's breath. He whined softly, tilting his head and perking his ears up as if listening to her, though she said nothing. She smiled a devastating smile, putting her hand forward to stroke his chin, light and gentle.

"I'll be back for you," She fetched the muzzle from somewhere within her jerkin and slipped it around the dog's snout, fastening it with steady fingers. "I promise."

She rose to her feet, then, making her way to the gate of the pen, Alistair's breath catching in his throat as she did so. _Maker,_ she was breathtaking.

"You should really be more prudent about your belongings," She placed a hand against Gareth's chest - Alistair watched as the kennel master's cheeks flushed red at her touch; clearly he was not the only one who found her, ahem, _alluring_. Only when Gareth clutched at where her hand had been did Alistair see a key flash against his breastplate. "It would be terribly easy for someone to borrow your things when you're not looking." She slipped away, then, walking off in the direction of the stables, of all places. _Maybe she's an animal whisperer,_ Alistair thought to himself. She certainly seemed to work some sort of magic on the hound. _I wonder if she stays down at the stables, I've been meaning to look at the King's horses..._

"Well..." Gareth fumbled, surprised by the girl's interference, though clearly thankful for her help, amongst other things. "Then I guess I need you to fetch me some Wilds Flowers tomorrow. Dead white with a blood red center, very distinct..."

And now here she stood again, watching devilishly as the infuriated mage stormed off through Ostagar's ruins. He could see her more clearly now, the sun-kissed skin and the full lips, the freckles dashed across her cheeks, the eyes that punched him straight through the stomach - and he meant that in the best way possible.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," He managed in his bumbling idiocy, searching desperately for something to fill the void of silence that had fallen between them with the mage's departure.

"_Your glibness does you no credit,_" She mimicked the mage's words from before, mischievous smile ghosting her lips. Alistair laughed.

"And here I was thinking it would be my secret weapon against the darkspawn!" He grinned. "Eat my snide remarks, you filthy Genlock!"

"We may as well take our armies and go home," She nodded, playing along with him. _Finally,_ a woman who enabled his terrible sense of humor!

"No, no, you should stay, I insist," He tried to suppress the giddy blush climbing his neck, lost in the girl's wildly enticing gaze. "You know, for moral support."

"Ah," She bit her lip..._Maker's breath, Alistair, stop staring!_

"Wait, we haven't met, have we?" He offered, blind. _Of course they had, and he was sure she recognized him just as well as he recognized her._ "I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

"Why?" She smirked. "Would that make your day worse?"

"Hardly," He shrugged. "I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment."_ Now or never, Andraste guide me._ "Are you...do you work with the animals here?" _Brilliant, Alistair, just brilliant._

"Not really, no," She smiled. "Though I understand why you might think that." She bit her lip again - _Maker, stop __**doing**__ that!_ "Unfortunately, our friend isn't faring as well today as he was yesterday. Though I hear the Joining may have something to do with his receiving aid?"

Wait..._this_ was the recruit? _Duncan's_ new recruit? For the _Grey Wardens_?

_Maker's breath, Andraste's tits and everything else in between._

_Was it possible to die of suffocation from one's own foot?_

"**You're** Duncan's new recruit!" He blinked, struggling to find his voice, grinning from ear to ear. 'Giddy' was an understatement. "I should've recognized you right away, I apologize."

"Why?"

Why_ what?_

"I shouldn't have been so quick to-"

"No, why should you have recognized me?" She cut him off, eyes boring into him. He was sure he'd find holes in his face the next time he awoke - oh, wait, he already had them, those things called _eyes..._

What was he on about again? Maker, it was hot outside today…

"Well, when word arrived Duncan had found a new recruit, it was mentioned that you were a woman-"

"Are there so few women around here as to make me distinguishable just by gender?" She countered.

Huh?

_Maker,_ she had pretty eyes...

"I, uh-"

"Because that's what you're suggesting," She finished for him. He blinked, head swimming.

Andraste, she talked too much.

"I wasn't finished, if you hadn't so rudely cut me off-" He cleared his throat, preparing to offer a witty remark when she cut him off. Again.

"Then perhaps you should speak _faster_."

Touché.

The pause that ensued was uncomfortable, what with her smirking at him like a sly little vixen…no! A sly little fox! That's what he meant. Vixen implied things the chantry would have given him the switch for. But at the thought of her and vixen in the same sentence, he grew even more nervous, making him shift from foot to foot, searching for something, **anything** clever to say.

He found nothing.

"So **you** must be Alistair," She smiled to herself, smug. Had she just one-upped him in verbal debate? He wasn't even aware they were _competing_...

"Did Duncan mention me?" He silently thanked Andraste for the change in topic. This girl may have been beautiful, but she was cutting him to the quick. He was nearly at his wit's end from only a minute's conversation. "Nothing bad, I hope. As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

"Pleased to meet you," She offered him a small curtsy. Bow. Curtsy-bow. Thing. "My name is Skaia."

"Right, that was the name!" He liked the sound of it. _Skaia_. It was like music. "You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been many _women_ in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?"

"Probably because we're too smart for you," She smirked, pleased with herself. She wouldn't gain the upper hand this time! He wasn't exactly a master of conversation, but witticisms were _**his**_ specialty, not hers.

"True. But if you're here, what does that make you?"

"Just one of the boys?" She offered. He laughed.

"Sad, isn't it?" He smiled to himself. This round was his, and they both knew it. "So, I'm curious...have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"

"Have you?" She deflected.

"I've only fought them once up close, and that was before the battles here started, which Duncan has kept me out of so far." His face fell at the memory, stomach churning with something awful - the stench of their ichor, the glimmer of their teeth against the sun, the blackened blood that pooled around them, the festering wounds and open sores they harbored along the entirety of their ruined bodies... "It was...horrible." He suppressed a shudder, steering the conversation away from the foul things blighting the land. "Anyhow, whenever you're ready let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

She only nodded her agreement, turning back to whence she'd come, expecting him to follow. He jogged behind her, catching up the distance between them. She was a curious thing, this new recruit. The other two recruits had bombarded him with questions when they'd first arrived - what _was_ the Joining ritual, what was involved, where would it take place, when would they fight in a battle, who was Duncan _really_, how had Alistair become a Grey Warden, what was it like being a Templar, has anyone ever told you you look a lot like King Cailan? But not her.

She was quiet and thoughtful and spoke when she felt like it and never to fill the silence. She had a biting tongue and a sharp mind and the most annoying way of outsmarting you in less than a minute's time and even still he felt caught up in a whirlwind of her, of the things she could have been and all that remained unknown about her. Where had she come from? Who was her family? What was she like?

Skaia. The Grey Warden.

He liked the sound of that.


	9. Chapter 8: Of Things Not Known

**A/N: **See? A new chapter! I...still can't promise consistency, but I'm trying as of late to motivate myself to write even when I don't feel particularly inspired. I hope you'll stay with me, faithful readers, and please feel free to let me know any feedback you might have! Thank you lovely readers!

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Of Things Not Known<strong>

**Skaia**

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><p>Two days of traveling with this shemlen, two days of silence as they made their way south toward the Korcari Wilds, two days of quiet anguish as she considered the taint that was inside her, two days shouldering the losses of those she loved, two days without any conflict to rend the pleasant harmony of the forests they explored.<p>

Two days until the darkspawn came.

She'd been atop the highest branches of one of the clearing's tallest trees, scouting out the area as Duncan prepared the night's camp. Dusk was dusting the swirling sunset of the horizon as night approached, a beautiful sight had she not been wrought with dread. It had been an uneventful voyage toward the Hinterlands so far, and where most people would believe this reason to feel safe, it only made Skaia's stomach clench in apprehension, muscles tensed and at the ready for a danger she felt was near. She'd not been able to explain to Duncan why she felt so uneasy, but he'd heeded her warning, offering to set up camp as soon as they came across a place suitable.

It had only been minutes - perhaps twenty - when Duncan had...changed. She couldn't explain how, couldn't put a name to what it was about him that had suddenly instilled fear in her gut, but he had _changed _somehow, and he hurried her along, footsteps falling out of rhythm as they once had been. His eyes had grown darker, his jaw harder than she remembered, a look of determination crossing his brow that the common man did not wear casually.

His was the face of a warrior.

So here she sat, perched within the thicket of a giant redwood, eyes scanning the many bumps and bruises of the landscape for any disturbances in its silhouette. She found nothing, eyes betraying what her ears were confessing - there was an eerie silence that rocked the wooded glen, a stillness of its creatures and an inaction of its trees that made her heart throb painfully in her ears, a steady thrum that was the only sound of life in all the many acres around her...

Something was very wrong here.

She was motionless against the tree's trunk, closing her eyes and listening for something, anything that would tell her the worst would not come to pass, not today, at least. She held her breath as she waited, afraid she might miss whatever nature tried to tell her.

Just then a twig snapped from somewhere far away and deep within the forest - but still, it was close enough for her to hear. Her eyes flew open to the sound as an unnatural haze suddenly seized the air around her, making her feel sick. She struggled to breathe, as the air was heavy now, wet with some foul thing she couldn't name. She waved her arm before her in twisted fascination at this odd sensation, and it felt as though she were swimming. The sense of dread deepened in her gut as her eyes began to tear with whatever had soiled the air, and there was a slight ringing in her ears as a voice clung to the edge of her hearing.

"Skaia!"

**Duncan.**

"Skaia - quickly, child, we must make haste!" He repeated, and, gathering herself, she made to descend the grand tree. She was quick and agile, senses honed to their full potential at the onset of this new, unseeable threat, as whispers began to claim the forest all around her, coming from every direction. Unsettled, she dropped to her feet beside him, looking to him for guidance in the face of this eerie turmoil and its melody of urgent hisses. But he was no longer paying attention, instead looking off and beyond into the veiled vines of the thicket at her back, and, slowly, she turned to face whatever it was that had rendered his face so unfamiliar and twisted with disgust.

She smelled them before she heard them, and heard them before she saw them.

The scent of rotting flesh and undead ichor - bitter, like burnt cinnamon dabbled with day old retch - assaulted her in waves, twisting her stomach into knots and burning the inside of her nose. She was disgusted, yes, but the scent didn't so much repulse her as it did_ offend_ her, for it was the omen of an aberrant, unnatural thing that should never **be**. She hadn't delved much into the realm of magic, but even _she_ could recognize this perverse existence of whatever bore down on them through the quieted forest.

Footsteps fell heavy against the dirt next, a steady, rumbling beat accompanied only by a chorus of snarls and distorted laughter. It was illogical, how the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere - she had always prided herself on her listening ear, how she was only half elven and could out-hear any of her kin in recognizing the slightest movement, or the breathing of the land's smallest of creatures. And she knew for a fact that this kind of sound, this was supernatural; every sound had an origin, had a source, and all one had to do was listen to find it. It was an _art_, the act of listening, one Keeper Marethari had trained her well in, and to find herself overcome by the gurgles and swells of the air from every direction made her teeth ache in frustration, and her head pound in concentration.

And then they poured into view.

They seemed to materialize out of nowhere but for a slight fog that lapped at their ankles, blackened bodies ripened with festering wounds and open sores that seemed to seep with every step. They all seemed to wear twisted grins that morphed their already distorted faces, displaying rows of teeth and fangs crusted over in blood and filth that looked to be older than Skaia herself. Their eyes, empty, void and glowering were also wild and devious, dancing to and fro in sadistic anticipation.

Darkspawn.

For an instant, she couldn't move. Her feet were rooted to the very spot where she stood, her eyes widening in fear at the horde of creatures descending upon them. She imagined seeing herself, small and trembling and unmoving as they came down upon her, ravaging her and feasting on her flesh as she cried out in pain. But she was wrenched from her macabre daydream as Duncan unsheathed his greatsword, and suddenly a fire flared within her, a burning hatred for the things that corrupted this forest.

Her first bow had left her fingers before Duncan could even strike the nearest abomination, landing square between the eyes of one of the many beasts beating against its chest as the thrill of war passed among its gruesome comrades. Only as this creature fell did the rest of its companions unleash a deafening roar, charging forward toward her and Duncan with surprising speed.

"Go!" Duncan motioned his head upwards, suggesting Skaia make a run for it of sorts and climb back up into the trees as the darkspawn came down upon them.

Even if there had been time enough for her to climb up and away from the horde, which there wasn't, she wouldn't have left Duncan to face these abominations alone - at the very least she would have offered her assistance in the form of arrows striking true from her perch atop the tree. But while archery was great from a vantage point - in theory - it was useless without the light of day - or a torch, at least - to guide her aim. The one downfall of the cover of darkness.

She knelt, then, offering him no explanation as she unsheathed a dagger from each of her boots. Rising, she grinned coldly at him with the sudden fervor of combat, charging forward to meet one of the beasts head on. Duncan may have been a Grey Warden, but he wasn't the only one who knew how to fight, and she'd be damned if these things lived to see another day and ruin yet another forest.

She made quick work of the first, spinning around the mighty swing of its sword to bury one of her daggers in its shoulder, thrusting the other upward into its eye as it howled in pain from the first plunge of her weapon. Kicking its corpse away so she would have the necessary room to maneuver, she widened her stance as two more darkspawn closed the distance between their weapons and her quick, agile form. She heard Duncan grunt somewhere a few paces away - and listened to the agonized shriek of a creature as steel sliced clean through flesh - and from the abrupt, gurgling stop of its scream, she could only assume Duncan had slit its throat.

Engaging the two darkspawn before her in swordplay, she managed to dance around them, timing her footwork with her breathing. Kicking the first into the mace of the second, she then swiped the now dying darkspawn's axe from his loosening fingers and plunged it squarely into the head of the second. Reclaiming her daggers from whence she'd dropped them on the ground, she embedded one neatly into the forehead of the suffering, floundering darkspawn who had taken the mace to his chest, abruptly ending his writhing agony; to Skaia, even these twisted, vile, and nefarious creatures didn't deserve to suffer.

And that's when she was thrown forward with a force strong enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Luckily she hadn't far to fall, as she had been bent over the struggling darkspawn, digging from its forehead her trusted, left-hand blade. She rolled instinctively to her right, narrowly avoiding the plummet of an iron mace that shook the ground with tumultuous force. But, unfortunately for her, she had rolled onto her own dagger, a searing pain now swelling in her gut as she struggled to scramble up from the dirt and reclaim some weapon, any weapon with which to fight off this unseen foe. Instead, she was met with another kick to the back, falling face first into the ground, mouth choking from dirt and leaves as pain speared her side.

"Skaia!" Duncan's voice, of course. But she wasn't paying attention, instead eyes trained on the hulking figure descending upon her. Its head was crowned - horned, actually, in some decorated helm that differed from the others she'd fought. It was greater in size, too, a towering figure of muscle and strength she had yet to see amongst the ranks of the darkspawn. Not that she'd een many.

"You fiend!" Duncan raged - he wasn't close, but he wasn't far off either - as Skaia struggled for breath, digging her fingers frantically in the dirt for any saving grace she could get her hands on. But the thing roared before she could grasp a weapon, bringing down its mace one last time to end its foe. Blinking, the last thought to steal her mind was of the mirror in her dream, the one that looked so familiar, though she did not know why, with Tamlen's hollow eyes and skeletal face staring back at her in its reflection.

_"No!"_

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><p><strong>Duncan<strong>

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><p>Duncan raced forward as soon as his last enemy fell, having seen the killing blow the Hurlock alpha had lain on Skaia, helpless and bleeding on the ground. He refused to lose his newest recruit to the blight before even having reached Ostagar - she had shown so much promise, so much potential for the order, had instilled in him so much hope, this child who had endured so much and continued on in strength as any warrior would.<p>

But instead, he found nothing.

_What?_

He could not see her bruised and battered body, could not find a corpse, could not see even the victorious, cheering form of her Hurlock opponent, but instead found only barren ground, slightly mussed about and scuffed over, abandoned of bodies.

_But she had been right here!_

_Hadn't she?_

He had made note of the gnarled hollow in the tree nearest to the tussling twosome - the only one in several paces in every direction - just before he'd been overwhelmed by Hurlocks, helpless to aid Skaia from the heavy blow of the alpha's mace, but now, sure enough, both of them were gone.

"So I'm not sure what the protocol is on language in the Order, but I feel damn well naked now that my crossbow's more useless than a pair of tits on a Genlock."

* * *

><p>They sat by the fire, he cleaning the blood from his sword, she tending to her the wound in her belly. She was much more animated now than he'd ever seen her before - for the past two days she'd been quiet, thoughtful, and, so he thought, in mourning for the life she'd been forced to give up. But now that she'd had her first taste of battle, she was nearly a different person, more <strong>alive<strong>, almost. And _certainly_ more talkative.

"And I've still no inkling what happened in the ruins with Tamlen," She rambled, wincing as she drowned her injury in alcohol, fumbling with the needle half embedded in her side. "And nobody would tell me a thing, not that I think they even knew - I don't think anybody knew, which, of course, could be a blessing in disguise, knowing Tamlen..." She laughed, then blinked at him. "You wouldn't happen to know what happened to me, would you?"

Duncan frowned; he did not.

"No, I'm afraid I don't. I'm sorry."

She nodded, making another stitch in her side. "That's why I can't say for certain whether or not I've faced Darkspawn before... I could have, but it's not like I would remember it." She grinned. "But it certainly seems like I have, given my performance against that Hurlock!"

"Yes, which still impresses me- Skaia, are you certain you require no help in sewing up that wound?"

"What, oh this? No, no, I'm fine - I impressed myself too! I was just lucky to find my crossbow... who knew the thing's mace would get so tangled up in the string? I was just trying to keep it from hitting me in the face!" He was barely listening, too preoccupied by the sight of the gash in her gut bleeding profusely as she stabbed at it.

"Skaia, are you entirely sure you know what you're doing-"

"Really, Duncan, I'm perfectly fine," She shook her head at him. "You don't live amongst the Dalish and come out without scars!" Beaming, she kicked the edge of the fire with her toe. "You needn't worry about me so much - as you said, as a Grey Warden, I'll be expected to give of myself and live my life entirely for others...playing it safe isn't really in the job description, no?" He hesitated in the honing of his blade. It was true, he had said that, the day they'd set out on their journey - but this was the first time, even for him as the leader of the Order, that he'd taken under his wing one so young. He'd thought Alistair to be young when he'd looked so terrified during his Joining, but this girl, this child who sat across from him, so absentmindedly poking at the deep wound in her stomach? She was barely even of age amongst the _Dalish_.

"Forgive me for being forward, but if you do not mind, where did you learn to speak the human tongue so well?" She shifted in her seat, surprised he'd changed the topic from one of responsibility to feeble chitchat. He suppressed a smile - a man his age and of his seriousness could still take pleasure in idle fancy.

"It's still English, is it not?" She arched a brow - this was true. She was clever; good. It would serve her well in the Order, if she survived.

"Ah, but avoiding the question with wit is still not an answer." The pause between them was short, but uncomfortable.

"As a half-human, I was always tasked with..._infiltrating_...human society," She shrugged, eyes trained to the forest floor. "Of course, only when it was _absolutely_ necessary." Another pause. "I could always pass for a human, in time. Once I'd learned how oddly you all behave... One simply need know where to look."

Ah, so young Skaia was wise beyond her years. Of course, she had to be, what with all the tragedy she'd endured in her short life. The death of her father, the disappearance of her biological mother only to experience the death of the closest thing she'd had _to_ a mother, the ostracizing of her people long before her conscription-

"Duncan, I'm ready," Her voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked to her for affirmation he hadn't merely been daydreaming. He had not. "I've no idea what happened to me in those ruins, but it was not without purpose. And, should I earn my place in the Order, I will help you defeat the Blight." She smiled to herself. "Though...I may need a new crossbow, first."

"That, dear girl, can most certainly be arranged," He laughed softly with her as they sat in comfortable silence beside the fire, partaking in each other's company until the last dying ember lost its glow. A child she may have been, but a child she was no longer. Ferelden was not doomed after all.


	10. Chapter 9: Tempt Me Not

**Chapter 9: Tempt Me Not**

**Alistair**

* * *

><p>"Shall we have a duel, then?" Skaia bounded up to him as though she were a pup looking for a playmate. He was amazed he couldn't find a wagging tail trailing behind her. "As was <em>promised<em> in the Wilds?" She blinked up at him, all too intentionally reminding him of the pact they'd made mere hours before.

"Now?" He half-laughed, half-groaned. She was endearing, he could not deny, but his muscles ached and his temples throbbed and he was too tired to fathom doing little more than eating and washing for the rest of the day, let alone the Joining ritual. Even if he **could** fell her in just a few swipes of his blade and a few steps of his own tactic... But no. Beating her was not the object of his concern.

She beamed up at him, unfazed.

"It seems we have no other obligation at the moment," She bit her lip, and he found the image alarmingly... inviting. "Unless you're _afraid_…" Before he knew it she'd unsheathed his sword from his hilt and danced back a step, holding it before him as if to threaten him. But in reality, he couldn't take her seriously, not when so little a thing held so wieldy a blade. She was so small, so young and naïve; she didn't yet understand what it meant to be a Grey Warden. _And she might never if she doesn't survive the Joining;_ the thought was fleeting, almost reflexive, and still he was shaken, trying and failing to put from his mind the notion that this dancing imp before him may actually perish at his own hand.

"Afraid? Of you?" He laughed, allowing himself the pleasure of the moment rather than the monotony of the future. "Of course not," His voice hardened as he fought to assert his dominance over her. Over all three of the recruits.

"Methinks the Warden doth protest too much!" Daveth taunted. "Come on, Alistair – if you were really so sure you could fell her you would engage her in a fight!"

"And I will, but it's been a long day for us all-"

"Coward," Skaia smirked, dropping his greatsword at his feet.

"I'm no coward," He fought to keep his voice even and steady, though now he could feel the heat rushing up his neck. Daveth was just as giddy as Skaia, enjoying Alistair's emasculation just as much, if not more.

"Then why won't you fight so harmless a creature?" Daveth gestured toward Skaia, who, in response, put out a leg – so graceful and smooth and..._Alistair! Focus!_ – bowing before him. She looked up at him from under her lashes, eyes dancing in ways that made his palms itch and his toes curl. He cleared his throat, trying to balance his need for assertion of dominance with his desire to let this girl, this lively, innocent girl before him, do whatever she please with him.

_Oh, such thoughts within the Chantry's walls...Thank the Maker for Duncan..._

"You _all_ need your strength before the Joining this evening," Alistair stood tall, breaking his gaze from Skaia to make clear his superiority over all three of the newest recruits. Ser Jory nodded respectfully.

"Come, Daveth, maybe he's right, if this Joining is as trying as we've been led to believe-"

"Oh, come off it, Jory, what's one little sparring match between friends?" Daveth waved Ser Jory off as though he were little more than a maggot instead of a knighted warrior.

"Alistair," Skaia stood straight then, as politely and officially as she could manage. "Would you _please_ oblige me with the duel you promised me in the Wilds earlier this evening?" She batted her lashes, hands clasped together in a quiet gesture of persuasion. It worked.

"Fine," Alistair managed after a long pause. "But there will be no-"

"Ma serannas!" Skaia loped off, presumably gathering what weapons she'd use for the match. '_Ma serannas'? What in Andraste's name did that mean?_ "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you!" She called over her shoulder. Alistair moaned, ruing his decision, only to be interrupted by Daveth, who had quietly sidled up next to him as they both watched her gallop away.

"Quite a firecracker that one, eh?" Daveth purred. "She's nothing short of a vision. I'd like to see her off-"

"Daveth!" Alistair barely wrenched himself from the fantasy the recruit was painting before him, into which he'd so quickly buried himself, imagining the detail of her every curve and arch… He sought to restore order, to avoid the growing inside his armor in response to anything having to do with women and sex. Being sheltered and stuck in a chantry for much of his life had sexually frustrated him, yes, but it had also made him afraid of the very subject of his deprival. Contrary to the teachings of the Chantry, virginity was no blessing, but a curse. "We will not speak of our fellow recruits in so… _foul_ and inappropriate a manner!"

"No offense, Alistair," Daveth grinned. "But from the way you were watching her earlier as she undressed to tend to her wounds says otherwise."

"I…That is….I would..You-"

"Alistair," Ser Jory was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder. "From one man to another, this is one battle you needn't engage." Alistair swallowed back the uncertainty that rose in his throat as he stood vigil, waiting for Skaia to return from whence she'd gone, suddenly excited at the prospect of being so close to her, engaged in and seduced by combat – there was an undeniable intimacy to be found in sparring, and he'd be damned if he didn't make a case for it today.

"Aneth ara!" Skaia unexpectedly sprang before him from his blind side, grinning ear to ear. It startled him. "Did you miss me?"

_'Aneth ara'? What in her right mind was she on about today?_

"Oh, _I_ certainly missed you," Daveth cooed, snaking toward her in such a way as to make _Alistair_ uncomfortable on her behalf. She eluded Daveth's scrutiny with just as slippery a defense, sidestepping his touch and betraying no discomfort on her face all in one swift movement.

"The question was meant for the one about to face me in a duel," Her eyes narrowed as she smirked. "Though you may certainly challenge me afterward, should you still wish to do so."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Alistair was suddenly defensive, feeling as though this childish girl had insulted his ability in combat – his **manhood** – directly. Was she assuming victory? And what was with the way she was sliding between lax, lazy slang to proper, polite language? He'd never noticed it before, but _now_...

"Just that he may not be so quick to engage my blade after seeing what I do to _you_," Skaia's lips curled into a smile as she brushed past him, running a finger along his shoulder as she did so. It was meant to mock him, to belittle him, but instead it served to send shivers up his spine. Only after they'd subsided could he react to her stabs at his masculinity.

"You are awfully quick to pride yourself," Alistair fumed, suddenly vexed beyond repair. "Tell me, was it Duncan who flattered your ego, or is this parading around like Andraste herself specific to only you?" Skaia whirled on him, eyes wild.

"I _earned_ my place amongst your ranks," She glowered at him, gesturing to her fellow recruits. He stormed up to her, now inches from her, towering over her comparatively tiny frame. "Unlike _you_, who was too proud to give me due credit when I killed the Hurlock Alpha outside the tower."

"Me? _I'm_ too proud?" He laughed, ignoring the memory of his unsuccessful strike against the creature who was instead felled by the small, spritely recruit who'd arrived just that early morning. "I don't believe _I'm_ the one strutting about camp as if I've already won the coming battle against the Darkspawn."

"It is merely confidence," She drawled, patience frustrating his now injured ego. "It is _you _who is too proud to fight _me_."

"Is that so?" He glared down at her, drawing his sword from his hilt as he did so. "Then by all means, let's get started."

Now she grinned, jumping back to unsheathe her own weapon. "You'll live to regret those words! If you live at all, mind you."

He lunged forward, plunging his weight behind his thrust, hoping to disarm her before this little sparring match could take a nasty turn. She was too quick for him, sidestepping his attack. She plucked a second dagger from her belt, and for a moment neither of them moved, just staring at one another, inviting the other to make the first move. She took him by surprise when it was she who made attacked first – he'd been too lost in her gaze to initiate any sort of offensive.

He wished he'd been stronger; not physically, but emotionally. She immediately came at him with a fury of swipes, alternating from one hand to the other, each blow precise and accurate. He deflected each stab with sword or shield, feet shuffling backwards as she came at him. Finally, he spun outward, away from her array of swings, only to bring his sword down at a diagonal motion aimed for her side. But again she proved to be a step ahead of him, blocking his blade with both of her daggers, which she'd brought together as a sort of makeshift defense in response to his own attack. Frustrated, Alistair charged forward with his shield, intending to bash her to the ground. She faltered, though she did not fall – he took the opportunity to plunge his sword once more for her abdomen, her torso his most open target. Instead, she caught his blade between her daggers, turning herself in a full roundabout as he withdrew. Her blades danced overhead, sunlight glinting off their sharpened edges as they spun through her now twirling fingers, and before he knew it she was bringing them down upon his shield arm.

Though he'd recoiled and dodged the severity of the attack, still his arm was caught in the path of her swordplay, and he could feel first the cold air of dusk rush against his skin where she'd managed to slice through his armor. A relatively shallow laceration ran the length of his forearm now, but he ignored it, fostering his pain and growing anger toward his target: her.

He dashed forward, bringing his shield up to meet her blades that which sliced through the air once more as he slashed his sword across her midsection – not enough to do any serious damage, but the hemline where her armor was connected was sliced through, and he'd drawn blood. She flinched back, staggering at the pain – he'd definitely cut her deeper than he'd cut her, for he'd let his anger get the better of him – and he merely smiled innocently in response as though to say 'I told you so.' But Skaia was unfazed, and as he threw another blow forward, she dodged his attempt as if she were dancing – her movements were fluid and swift, as though she were not dueling with a combination of movements, no, but was instead engaged in one eternal movement without beginning or end. Frustrated, Alistair threw his shield to his left in a vain attempt to fell her as she eluded his swings, but she'd foreseen his reflexes and was now instead at his back, and before he could comprehend it, she was kicking out his shin, sending him stumbling. Another swing from he, and a defensive knick of blades from she, and his sword had been disarmed. He watched his sword hit the ground with a resounding thud as she kicked him down, felling him to his knees, dagger at his throat a mere moment after. He dropped his shield not in defeat, but in shock. _How had she won?_

"Do you surrender, Sir Warden?" Her voice sounded from above him and he swallowed, pressing his throat further into the blade embedded against his flesh. It was enough to prick from him a drop of blood, and with that she withdrew her weapon. He could hear her gentle footsteps against the loose soil, but he was nowhere near to accepting defeat – all he could see was the glint of his blade in the dirt, his own face, discouraged and mortified, in the reflection that stared back at him, and before he knew it, he was scrambling forward in the dirt hopelessly for his sword, kicking out his leg, tripping Skaia as he did so.

She fell forward, landing on her hands and knees, dropping her weapons with definitive clangs. She flipped around to face him, watching as he came at her with his blade in tow, but as he brought it down in a motion meant to end the duel, she had scrambled out from under the thing's path only to catch his arm in her hands. The rest was an incoherent blur to him – he felt his sense of gravity and center of mass change as he was hurled forward, dropping his sword somewhere along the way, landing on his back hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He gasped for air, craning his neck to see what had so felled him, and then there was Skaia, fluidly withdrawing a third dagger from her boot and pinning him to the ground all in one motion. She sat on his chest, dagger now at his throat, and though he was angry, enraged, in fact, as was she, and they were locked together in this deadly embrace in what had now become this life-or-death sparring match, between them now only the radiating heat of exertion and emotion from their bodies, and though he was in agony, in pain everywhere in his body, exhausted and famished and dying of thirst and wanting nothing more than to curl up somewhere and hibernate, he found himself gazing up at the girl now staring down into his face. Her silky tresses fell in cascades around her face, sun-kissed skin shining with a glossy sheen that one only earned in combat, her intelligent, impish, and ghostly eyes dancing behind thick lashes. He could even count the number of light freckles splattered just beneath her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. She was heaving for breath, tired and furious with him – how they'd grown to such rivalry in so short a time, he knew not – and still her eyes spoke not with fury or cruelty, but instead curiosity, as though she were studying him from her perch atop his chest as would a puppy a butterfly settled in the grass below. He found himself pining after this face, this beautiful face, that so innocently studied his own, shadowed in the fading light of the sun, a halo of the day's final rays crowning her cherry-raven hair, and couldn't force himself to feel anything but rapture as he gazed back up at this creature above him.

"Yield!" She asserted firmly, once more pressing a dagger closely to his throat. This was getting old.

"I yield," He sputtered, and, impressed with herself, she withdrew her weapon, springing lightly from his torso onto the balls of her feet, rejoicing with Daveth and Ser Jory in her victory. Alistair rubbed his neck, pain enveloping his every muscle.

But before he could rise to his feet and regather his fallen pride, she'd come to stand above him, smiling down at him, eyes twinkling.

"I hope you realize I was inciting your anger so you would duel me, and that, when you did, you were blinded by your ego," She knelt, then, just beside him. "And you ate it. All. Right. Up." And with that she skipped away from the lot of them toward the kennel, most likely to visit her sick Mabari friend and present Gareth with the herb - '_dead white with a blood red center'_ - that would save the hound's life.

_"Have to say, Alistair, I wish it was me who had challenged her to a duel in those woods..."_

_"Do you need a hand, Sir Warden?"_

_"He's a man, Jory, he'll be alright! More than alright, if I had to bet..."_

He would never be so quick to doubt Skaia again.


End file.
